Doctor's Wife (15 page)

    It rang again. She did not move.

    “Shall I get it?” he asked.

    “No.”

    “It could be Peg.”

    “It might be Kevin.”

    They listened, until it stopped ringing.

    “Why could it be him?”

    “Because,” she said, “if that hotel said we’ve left,
he has nowhere else to ring.”

    She turned and went into the living room. Danny, his
broken leg, white bone sticking up through the skin. She put down
her coffee cup. “Listen,” she said, “would you mind going out for a
little while?”

    “You mean, now?”

    “Yes. I’d better phone him.”

    “Sure,” he said. He kissed her and went at once into
the front hall. She heard the front door shut. She looked up
instructions in the French telephone book and dialed Belfast
direct. The phone rang just once before it was picked up.

    “Hello,” his voice said.

    “Kevin, it’s Sheila. Is everything all right?”

    “Where are you?”

    “In Paris.”

    “I mean, where are you staying?”

    She did not answer.

    “Look. I’ve been calling you since Sunday.” She
heard the familiar irritation in his voice. “Where the hell have
you been?”

    “I was in a hotel on Sunday and Monday nights. I
believe you called me there. Peg said you did, but they’re hopeless
in that hotel, they never get anything right. I’m sorry.”

    “I thought you were going to stay with Peg.”

    “I wanted to stay in a hotel.”

    “Why?”

    “I just wanted to, that’s all. How’s Danny?”

    “Never mind Danny, Danny’s all right, not that you
seem to give a damn. Look, what’s going on?” She heard his
breathing, heavy and panting. “There’s something funny going on.
Either that, or somebody’s playing a very dirty joke.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “All right, I’ll tell you. After I finally got
through to your pal Peg Conway this morning and heard a whole
rigmarole about people staying with her and then not staying with
her, I can tell you I wasn’t very reassured. So I rang this hotel
number she gave me and the woman there said, ‘
Monsieur et
Madame sont sortis
.’ That’s what she said. Well, of course, I
thought there must be some mistake.”

    “Kevin, I keep telling you, I told you they get
everything wrong in that hotel.”

    “Just a minute. I asked the woman
in
French
. I spelled your name, I told her you were a lady
traveling on a British passport and I said that she’d got the wrong
room. And she said no, the only Redden she had was Madame Redden
and she was with a gentleman and they were both out. She was quite
definite. So you see what I mean, ha ha,” he said, giving the false
little laugh he gave when he was nervous. “
Monsieur et
Madame
. I’ve been bloody well thinking I should get on a plane
and come over. And bring a bloody gun, ha ha. You see what I mean,
don’t you?”

    Suddenly she decided. “I’m sorry about this, Kevin.
I should have told you sooner.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean? Jesus, you’re joking,
aren’t you?”

    “Kevin, wait.” She began to speak, the words badly
phrased as though she improvised a lesson she had not prepared. “I
was at the hotel, yes, and I wasn’t on my own. I’m not on my own
now.”

    “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

    “I should have rung you up before. But I didn’t know
what to say.”

    “Say what?” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

    “I mean, I mean . . .” She stopped, catching her
breath. “I’m not coming home.”

    “Now what? Wait a minute, Sheila. What’s happened?
What’s
happened
?”

    “I’m with someone else.”

    “Who?”

    “You don’t know him. That’s not the point.”

    “Now, wait,” he said. His voice had become calm; it
was the voice he used with patients, controlled, quiet, a voice
which handed out verdicts of life and death. “Are you feeling all
right? Are you upset about something? Tell me.”

    “It’s not that.”

    “Who is this man?”

    “I don’t want to tell you.”

    “Sheila, do you know what you’re saying?”

    “Yes.”

    “All right, I’m going to get on a plane and come
over. I’ll be there in the morning.”

    “No, Kevin, I don’t want you to. I’ll call you in a
few days. It won’t help if you come now. It will just make things
worse.”

    “Where are you staying?”

    “I’m not going to tell you.”

    “And what if something happens to Danny in the
meantime? How will I get in touch with you?”

    “Please, Kevin, don’t make things worse. I’ll ring
you the day after tomorrow.”

    “I suppose Peg Conway’s mixed up in this.”

    “No, it’s nothing to do with her.”

    “All right. I’m sorry. Listen, Sheila.” She could
imagine him standing in the hall at home pursing his lips as he did
when talking to some patient who was going through a crisis. “I
know I’ve made many a joke about your brother Owen. But he’s a
first-rate gynecologist, and, look, things like this happen to a
lot of women. You’re young for menopause, but we can’t rule out any
possibility. There’s
something
wrong, do you understand? I
know it’s hard for you to realize it now, you’re in the middle of
it, but, as I say, it happens a lot. Now, listen. If I ask Owen to
ring you up, would you talk to him? Would you do that as a favor to
me?”

    “No.”

    “Why not? You and Owen are close, and he’s a good
doctor. Just give me a number and a time he could ring you. Please,
Shee?”

    “I’m ringing off now. Good night.”

    “Shee, listen,” he began, but she put the receiver
down; she had to do it, he was treating her as a patient, it was
the only way he knew to deal with trouble. She went into Peg’s
bedroom, found Kleenex, and blew her nose to stop the tears she
felt coming on again. Then, on an instinct, she went to the front
door of the flat and unlocked it. He was sitting on the stairs,
half a flight down. He turned to look up at her. “I didn’t hear
anything,” he said.

    “I know. Come on up.”

    “You reached him?”

    “Yes.”

    He came up. She slid the chain across the inside
lock of the door after admitting him. He put his finger on her
cheek. A tear slid onto his fingernail.

    “Oh, dear,” she said. “I wonder, does Peg have any
cognac?”

    As she spoke, the phone rang. It rang. They stood
facing each other, not moving.

    It rang. It rang.

    He lifted her chin, looked at her, then kissed her
clumsily on the lips, and at his touch, she clung to him.

    It rang. It stopped ringing. She kissed his cheek
and his ear, stroking his long dark hair, fingering his face as
though she were blind. And then, like survivors walking away from a
crash, they went, clumsily, uncertainly, arms around each other,
into Peg’s bedroom.

    The phone began to ring again.

    He let go of her, turned, and ran out to the hall,
snatching the phone off the stand, letting it dangle on its cord.
He went back to her, kissed her hurriedly, and began to unbutton
the neck of her dress. She stopped him. She went into the hall and
picked up the phone, listening. The phone gave off a dial tone. She
replaced it on its stand and went back to him. Gently he began to
unbutton her dress again, she helping him as though both were
children until, naked, they faced each other in the dark room, the
blinds not drawn, the night traffic lights from far below on the
Place Saint-Michel moving across the shadows of the high old
ceiling like kaleidoscope flickers in a ballroom. Below, they heard
the hum of traffic, the squealing of brakes, the faint far-off
noise of car horns. Holding hands, they went to the big bed and lay
down on it, her face still tearmarked, her sorrow and need for him
quickly becoming desire, his tenderness changing to sudden, urgent
lust. In the half darkness their bodies began to entwine and
move.

    The phone rang. It rang, it rang.

    He raised her up, turning her around to kneel with
her back to him, her face half buried in the soft pillow, naked to
him, like a victim on a block, as he rose up behind her, his penis
nudging and thrusting. The phone rang. It rang, but as he entered
her, she no longer heard it. At last it stopped ringing, but she
did not notice. In the half darkness their bodies continued to
thrash and strain.

    
Part 2

    Chapter 10

    • When the telephone rang that night, Dr. Deane and
his family had already gone to bed. It was after the eleven o’clock
news, and as he undressed he could hear his daughters playing the
record player in their bedroom. Agnes, his wife, went along the
corridor to the bathroom and stopped to knock on the girls’ door in
warning. “Anne and Imelda, turn that down, you’ll wake the whole
avenue up!”

    The phone rang, just at the moment the record player
was turned down. He lifted the receiver, expecting a patient. “Dr.
Deane,” he said.

    “Owen, this is Kevin Redden.”

    “Oh, hello, Kevin, how are you?”

    “Listen, Owen, I’m sorry to disturb you at this time
of night, but I’m in a spot of trouble. Could I come over and see
you? It’s about Sheila.”

    “Sheila? Is she sick?”

    “No, no, it’s not that. It’s something else.”

    Dr. Deane heard his wife inside the bathroom,
turning on the water taps. He lowered his voice. “Kevin, let me
come and see
you
. That might be better.”

    “Well, I hate to bring you out at this time of
night.”

    “No bother,” Dr. Deane said in a quiet voice. He
tried to make a joke of it. “I’m used to night calls.”

    He had dressed himself again when he heard Agnes
leave the bathroom. She stopped by the girls’ door, as she did most
nights, to call: “Imelda and Anne, have you brushed your
teeth?”

    “Yes, Mummy.”

    “All right, then. Good night, dears.”

    “ ‘Night, Mummy.”

    He went out onto the landing, buttoning up his tweed
jacket. “Don’t switch the hall lights off,” he said.

    “You’re not going out?”

    “I’m afraid so.”

    “Where is it, this time?”

    “Oh, it’s just a case over on the Antrim Road,” he
lied. “I’ll not be too long, I hope. Don’t wait up for me.”

    “Take your scarf,” she said.

    It was raining out. In his car, he set the
windshield wipers flicking and reminded himself that he had lied to
her. He hated to do that. But she had the habit of telling
everything to her sister and the sister told the mother, and so it
was broadcast to all and sundry. And this did sound like a serious
matter. It was not like Kevin Redden to ring up and ask for help.
He and Redden were not at all close, a brother-in-law he saw
perhaps twice a year at some family occasion, a large, handsome
chap with an irritating nervous laugh that was very disconcerting
and awkward when you first heard it. He wasn’t at all the sort
you’d expect Sheila to have married. She was fond of reading and
the theater. Redden seemed just the opposite—never opened a book,
liked his golf and fishing and so on. Still, he was clever enough,
he had his F.R.C.S. and was on the staff of the Royal, the
Protestant teaching hospital, which, when you considered that he
was Catholic, meant he knew his stuff. Besides, Sheila had married
very young, at a time when she was unsure of herself and her
prospects. She was lazy about jobs. Dr. Deane remembered, and she
had a restless side to her, too. He remembered their talks about
religion and doing something worthwhile with your life. That
restless side of her was something that perhaps she didn’t
understand too well herself.

    When he drove into the driveway of Redden’s big
gazebo of a house in the Somerton Road, he noticed the front door
opening before he stopped the car engine. Redden came out into the
night, obviously nervous, shaking his hand, thanking him profusely
for coming. No sign of Sheila, and when they went into the drawing
room, he saw that a silver tray had already been laid out on a
table, with whiskey, Waterford water jug, and glasses.

    At first Redden said it all over again, about how
sorry he was to bring him out at this time of night. He poured
whiskey and both men sat, awkwardly, looking at the fire. And then,
in a rush, Redden began to talk, and the whole story came out—how
he had been held up by a series of accidents from joining Sheila on
their holiday in the South of France, and how she had gone alone,
and so on, and then, at last, about the telephone calls.

    “I mean, Owen, I don’t have to tell you I just
couldn’t believe my ears. There’s only one conclusion in my mind
and that is that she’s not herself.”

    “Has she been ill, then?”

    “Well, she has these premenstrual depressions.”

    “How bad are they?”

    “Hard for me to say. You’re a gynecologist, I’m not.
I wonder—it couldn’t be some sort of early menopause?”

    “At her age? No, no,” Dr. Deane said.

    “I just don’t understand it. I have no idea of who
the man could be. She certainly wasn’t running around with anybody
from here, as far as I know.”

    “Mnn,” Dr. Deane said.

    “I wondered—I mean, I said to her on the phone that
maybe if you could speak to her, Owen? Both as her brother and as a
medical man, ha ha.”

    “And what did she say?”

    “Oh, she was against it. I tell you the truth, Owen,
I don’t know what to do now.”

    “It’s a rotten business,” Dr. Deane said. He was
shocked more than he would have guessed. The idea of Sheila taking
up with some man abroad, then telling her husband about it over the
telephone. It didn’t sound normal. Anxiety filled him: this family
thing again. He thought of Ned, his older brother. Another rotten
business.